Beggar
by Future'sFates
Summary: She walks the crowded street, feeling more alone than ever before. Jackson... a pen, a coat, a hat, and an orange shirt make all the difference. Rights to Riordan.


You tell me there's this beggar on the street with nothing but a black overcoat and a bowler hat to bear him against the harsh winds and snow.

You tell me he's not moving anymore, not that he moved much when we is.

You say he's surrounded by bottles of beer and the scent of alcohol fogs around claustrophobically.

You tell me to give him ten.

You give him a twenty.

Well, he doesn't take it. I don't think he even sees you.

I take out my wallet. I take out ten.

He doesn't take it.

Then a girl all clad in silver getup sits next to him. She has black hair and bright blue highlights. She says to shove off.

You sneer and say you were just trying to help.

Well it isn't, the girl is saying.

I pull you away, still glaring at the girl. It didn't appear that she wanted to be there, on the corner of the street with a drunkard either, but she does what she has to.

You drive home alone. I don't want to leave just yet.

The girl is still there, with that alcoholic on the street. She shakes him hard, tells him to get up and get over it. He's quivering and whimpering. She sympathizes.

You told me he was stupid, not hurt.

Another two girls in silver pop up. I guess it was a thing for them. Silver. Hunh.

This girl has brown hair and feathers woven into it, her accompaniment has her long black hair in a braid. Something tells me I'm not supposed to be here. You always follow your instinct. I am different. I stay.

The three girls look over at me. It is unsettling, having all pairs of startling eyes stare at me, like punishment. The girl that told us to leave has these...electrifying eyes. The brown haired one has eyes that change color. The last with the braid has deep dark angry eyes. But they all seem sad.

They look back to the boy, each pats his shoulder comfortingly, then leave, sparing me a daring glance.

When they were out of sight, I walk over to the boy, curiosity getting the better of me. I hesitate. I sit down next to him after a moment. He doesn't look up. The hat shades his face; he would've been handsome if not for the grime. I tap his arm. He silently turns his head to me.

It wasn't what I was expecting. His eyes are green. They glow, not like emeralds, more like a stormy ocean, with blues and greens clashing and swirling, every so often the grey clouds take over.

It is frightening, seeing that in him.

He stares at me, his eyes settling to a dark forest colour.

I don't speak. Neither does he.

He has stubble roughing up his face. He has tan skin, like he spends all day on the beach.

Yes, he is attractive, save for the burning stench of beer. I reach up and almost touch his face; he turns. I'm almost disappointed for some reason.

I stay with him until twilight, when the stars are peeking through the hooded hues of the blue. He's looking at the stars. His eyes water, but he doesn't cry. I can tell he wants to.

I try to see where he looks. I squint. All I see are specks in the universe. I can't see anything surprising. I feel a gaze on me.

I sneak a shy look at him, he who is looking straight back.

You said homeless people are old and idiots, who get themselves poor and sick.

I believed you, but now I can see how pained he's feeling.

He reverts his head back to the stars and points passed the polluted sky of New York to the space beyond. He draws lines in the air.

He connects the dots. It's a girl. She has a bow and arrow like a hunter from the time of the past. His eyes linger there for a second more before returning to me.

I feel strange, sitting with this stranger on the edge of the street with people in fancy garb bustling all around.

But life is strange, and I find myself enjoying this weird peacefulness.

I keep a steady look in his eyes, and he doesn't let it go. I can see my reflection in the sea of him. My brown eyes are staring right back at me.

The wind began to pick up again. I shiver. It's cold.

He shrugs off his jacket and wraps it around my shoulders. It's long and goes down to my mid-thigh. He's just in an undershirt now. It's stretched over chiseled muscles and a strong chest. His coat smells of salty sweetness. I try to give it back; it's cold and he needs it.

He shakes his head. He doesn't want it.

I don't understand why I stayed, or why he gave me his jacket.

It starts to rain. He doesn't seem to like it, but neither does it bother him.

My phone buzzes. My sister.

I text back quickly. I am busy.

She doesn't reply.

The boy just stares at his bare feet. His shirt is soaked through. I try not to stare. Not just at his toned skin, but also not at his...scars. They were everywhere. White streaks littered across the dark.

I wonder how someone like him ends up like this. He notices my discomfort and sighs despairingly. He puts his hat on my head, covering my brown locks. His black hair was previously sticking up, now matted down with rain.

The rain that washed away the smell of drunkenness.

I should go. He apparently thinks so too.

He stands and offers me his hand. I take it slowly. He pulls me up in one motion, like it's no problem.

I start to take off his jacket, but he shakes his head and buttons the front for me; he also flicks the edge of the hat playfully. He's smiling, but it doesn't reach his eyes, for the reason I have no idea.

"Thanks," I say quietly, just loud enough as to not disturb his silence.

He nods.

This is it. I turn away.

A warm hand grasps my shoulder.

I turn back.

He hands me a pen. I uncap it. It's a ballpoint pen. He handles it fondly. I suppose he gives all this to me to forget and let go of the past. At least I can do something. I take it and hold it tenderly.

He encloses my fist with his hands, looks me in the eye, then let's go and sits back down. He crosses his arms, closes his eyes, and leans his head back against the wall behind him.

"Thanks," I whisper again.

Clutching the pen tightly, I almost hear him say his thanks back, but I just run through the rain.

It's late. I'm wet. My sister is asleep on the couch, television on.

I turn it off.

The quiet feels unnatural without this man that I sat with for hours for no apparent reason. I feel like I know him now, but I don't, and I'm going to go back to a normal life, without being mute with a stranger.

I wrap my arms around myself while I trudge up the stairs to my room.

I take off the jacket gingerly. There are faded words on the back sewed on in red. It reads: Jackson. Maybe his last name? I twirl the hat in my hands. It's old and worn, but I get nostalgic looking at it. I put them both in my closet, something you'd never do. I can still smell the sea on him.

I stare at the pen in my hands. It looks so ordinary. I place it on my bedside table, flick off the lights, and collapse into a deep dreamless slumber.

* * *

In the morning, he's not there. Not even a trace left. Just an empty corner.

* * *

The pen is in my pocket. It's my lucky pen; it works well and gives me courage. It strangely never runs out of ink.

I still wonder what happened to him, what became of those girls in silver, and what I will be. You don't know why I have a Jackson jacket in my closet, or where I ever got a bowler hat, but I won't dispose of them, no matter how beat up they look.

I remember the constellation he pointed to. I don't know what to call it. I suppose The Hunter will do.

The stars that slowly recede as the sun rises.

* * *

I move on. But I don't forget the man on the corner.

I never see him or the girls again. My sister thinks I'm crazy. I don't know what you would've done, but I could guess. You would've given him the money and left, for that is kind enough already.

I sit on the plane and fly away from New York.

* * *

I'm at a desk. I'm wearing his jacket and hat. I'm still using his pen.

There is an empty book in front of me, or, at least, it will be a book by the time I'm done.

And when it is done, it's filled with the words he never said and the past I never heard and the emotions he held that I never knew. Jackson…

* * *

You'd told me there's this beggar on the street with nothing but a black overcoat and a bowler hat to bear him against the harsh winds and snow.

You told me he's not moving anymore, not that he moved much when we was.

You said he's surrounded by bottles of beer and the scent of alcohol fogs around claustrophobically.

You'd told me this man was a drunk bastard.

But this person on the street shaped me.

This boy began something I would continue.

Beggar.


End file.
